I have a message on my cellphone, but don’t know how to retrieve it. We programmed in a password, but it won’t take the password. So I’m stumped. I’m wondering who called, and if it’s important. Maybe somebody died.

I am telephonically challenged. My cellphone has a calendar, but I can never remember how to get to it, so I don’t use it. My stress level rises whenever I need to look up a number in the address book, and the thought of programming in a new address freaks me out. My wife just starts hitting buttons automatically, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. At times like those, I resent her transcendent competence.

My cellphone will take pictures, handle text messages, do voice dialing, show me a log of all calls placed and missed, and even let me play games. It’ll surf the web if I want to pay for the privilege (which I don’t). But I’ve not done any of that stuff. I just want to punch in a number, hit SEND, and have somebody answer. The other thing I’ve mastered is recharging the battery. I nailed that task long ago. The sense of accomplishment still gives me goosebumps.

I’m not exactly technologically inept. I do a lot of complicated stuff. I can handcode HTML and CSS. I’m proficient with Photoshop, InDesign. Dreamweaver, and many more high-end programs. I’m great with MS Word tabs. I work with Javascript, XHTML, XSLT (the absolute worst). I design Filemaker databases with complex scripting. I know all about the various graphics formats (PNG, JPG, TIF, PSD, GIF, etc.), with attendant info about dpi and resolutions and what works better on the web and in print. I can bend Blogger and Movable Type templates to my will. I oversee a network of computers (including five servers), design and maintain a half-dozen websites and several blogs, get databases to display on the web, and much more. I love FTPing. I talk enough Geek to fool people into thinking I am one. When I surf the web, I often look at a page’s source code, just to see how they did something.

But I can’t figure out my cellphone. And while we’re at it, I don’t like FAX machines, either.

I received my annual call from the police benevolent association. This organization has had a terrible track record as a charitable group, with a huge percentage of donations going toward fundraising costs. However, I was impressed that right away, the caller identified the organization, and gave the street address and an 800 number. Then he began his pitch.

I let him go for a little bit, and then butted in with my usual “thanks but no thanks” speech, which includes an affirmation of them as an organization but also gives my reason for not wishing to support them. So when the guy paused to take a breath, I said:

“Thanks for calling. I know you are a worthy cause. My wife and I support a number of worthy causes, but we prioritize them and we decided not to include your organization. So I’m afraid we’re not interested.”

Usually, this confuses fundraisers, because they’re not accustomed to encountering thoughtful givers, preying more on impulse givers. But this guy was ready for me. He said:

“That’s great. We find that people like you are among are best and most reliable supporters. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to cut you a deal. For just ten dollars….”

And that’s where he totally lost me. “Cut you a deal”–those were his exact words. I immediately interrupted him and said, “We don’t ‘cut deals’ when it comes to charitable giving.” And I hung up.

That really irked me. Giving, ministry, service–you shouldn’t do these things because you get some benefit out of it. I’m not going to support something just because they made me a great deal–sent me a book, included me in a drawing, or signed me up as a member at a lower-than-normal cost.

Should we “cut deals” when it comes to tithing percentage (“Hey, 10% is a bit steep. How about 4%? Would that work for you?”). Or maybe tell people, “Life is hectic, so we don’t expect people to attend church every Sunday. If you can make it two Sundays a month, that’s good enough for us.”

When Jesus told the rich man that he needed to sell everything he owned and give it to the poor, the man walked away. And Jesus let him walk away. Should Jesus have said, “Okay, maybe that’s a bit much. I’ll cut you a deal–sell just half of what you own and give it away. No, I can do better than that. Let’s make it just a third. Do we have a deal?” But no, Jesus let the guy walk away. Jesus don’t cut no deals.

With this caller from the policeman’s association, I stomped away.